WOR  -D 


THEADOREIL, 


The  Finest  Baby 
in   the    World 


Being-   Letters   from  a  Man 

to  Himself  about 

his  Child 


By  The&dorer 


Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 

NEW  Yoan      CHICAGO      TORONTO 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  63  Washington  Street 
Toronto:  27  Richmond  Street,  W 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  30  St.  Mary  Street 


/.        The    Finest    Baby    in    the 
World.     .     .     .     .     . 

II.  The  Mystery  of  the  Dawn  . 

III.  The  Unexpressed  Fear  .     , 

IV.  My  Invisible  Spurs 

V.  A  Haunted  House  .     .     . 

VI.  The  Conclusion  of  the  Whole 

Matter 


7 
16 

28 

35 
45 

54 


LETTER  No.   ONE 


The    Finest    Baby    in    The 
World 

I  AM  writing  these  letters  to  you  be 
cause  I  know  that  you  are  quite  im 
partial  about  children.  You  yourself 
are  the  proud  father  of  a  little  one,  and 
therefore  I  am  sure  you  have  learned 
from  experience  to  see  the  good  in  other 
people's  babies,  while  you  can  be  both 
silent  and  sensible  about  your  own. 
You  are  no  child  egoist.  If  I  were  to 
write  in  this  fashion  to  any  one  else, 
I  would  be  certain  to  be  misunderstood. 
But  it  is  different  with  you.  You 
may  perhaps  wonder,  however,  why  I 
do  not  address  these  strictly  con 
fidential  letters  to  her  mother.  The 
reason  is,  I  shall  have  many  occasions 
to  speak  of  her  mother,  and  it  is 
always  invidious  to  write  personalities. 
7 


8       The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

So  I  write  to  you.  Her  mother  is — 
naturally — very  partial.  You  are  not. 
I  trust,  therefore,  that  I  am  not  pre 
suming  too  much  on  my  knowledge  of 
you  when  I  express  the  conviction 
that  you  will  regard  these  letters  as 
strictly  private,  and  not  do  as  so  many 
married  men  do — hand  them  over  to 
your  wife  to  read. 

You  will  doubtless  wonder  why  I 
should  call  her  the  Finest  Baby  in 
the  World — I  of  all  people.  Your 
wonder  is  quite  excusable.  For  it  is  a 
matter  of  constant  surprise  to  me  that 
parents — more  especially  mothers — 
should  think  their  own  children  the 
best.  It  is  a  matter  of  common  ridi 
cule.  Whatever  we  do  or  do  not  do, 
let  us  avoid  this  weakness.  For 
thinking  that  a  certain  child  is  the 
pattern  of  all  the  virtues  does  not 
always  save  the  child  from  shocking 
faults.  The  children  who  are  most 
belauded  by  their  mothers  are  in 
variably  the  nastiest  little  prigs.  So 
pray  do  not  imagine  I  am  partial 


The  FINEST  BABTin  The  WORLD      9 

when  I  call  her  the  Finest  Baby  in 
the  World.  I  am  merely  stating  an 
elementary  truth — -just  as  one  might 
say  the  day  is  light  and  the  night  is 
dark.  It  is  not  my  opinion — it  is 
other  people's  opinion.  Bachelors 
and  old  maids  have  been  the  foremost 
to  tell  me  she  is  that.  And  bachelors 
and  old  maids  have  nothing  to  gain 
by  such  speeches — unless  it  be  from 
one  another.  Yes,  every  one  without 
a  single  exception  has  told  me  she  is 
the  finest  child  in  the  world,  and  I  am 
not  going  to  be  such  an  unmannerly 
fellow  as  to  disbelieve  everybody. 
Everybody  cannot  surely  be  wrong. 
And  yet,  we  have  been  so  afraid  of 
seeming  too  eager  in  our  willingness 
to  take  other  people's  opinion,  and  so 
timid  about  trusting  to  our  own,  that 
we  have  used  our  own  discretion  in 
making  actual  comparisons.  For  we 
find  that  people  do  not  always  tell  the 
truth  about  babies — especially  when 
addressing  the  baby's  parents.  We 
have  therefore  taken  pains  to  observe, 


io     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

with  discretion.  We  have  been  look 
ing  at  children  everywhere — on  the 
street  and  in  the  nursery — in  short 
clothes  and  long  clothes — both  boys 
and  girls — dark  and  fair — of  all  ages 
and  sizes — and  without  any  previous 
exchange  of  confidence  between  our 
selves,  each  of  us  has  arrived  separately 
at  the  conclusion  that  Margaret — our 
child — is  the  Finest  Baby  in  the 
World.  This  is  not  a  matter  of 
seeming,  it  is  a  matter  of  fact.  Stated 
by  everybody,  and  confirmed  by 
ourselves.  Hence  these  letters  to 
you. 

You  know,  of  course,  where  we  live 
— in  a  wide,  breezy,  upland  country, 
with  clean  winds,  far  views  of  hill 
and  moorland  and  fertile  wooded 
plains  below,  and  beyond  the  plains  a 
strip  of  shining  sea  on  which  the 
ships  pass  up  and  down,  minding  one 
irresistibly  of  voyagings  to  distant 
lands  beyond  the  margin  of  the  world. 
When  Margaret  came,  it  was  in  the 
month  of  May.  The  garden  was 


The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD     1 1 

steeped  in  sunshine,  and  the  lambs 
were  bleating  in  the  fields.  I  was 
sitting  in  my  library,  with  a  wide- 
open  window,  painfully  transcribing 
an  everlastingly  long  list  of  signatures 
from  one  book  to  another,  much  in 
the  way  that  desperate  characters  in 
certain  private  institutions  are  set  to 
shift  a  heap  of  stones  from  one  place 
to  another.  The  exercise  requires  no 
great  thought,  but  by  the  mere 
mechanical  action  of  mind  and  hand 
one  contrives  most  wondrously  to  glue 
one's  attention  to  one  thing  and 
deliberately  keep  it  off  another.  I 
could  tell  you  exactly  what  birds  were 
singing  and  what  flowers  were  bloom 
ing  in  the  garden  that  day.  But  no 
matter.  The  warm  blossom-laden 
winds  of  late  May  came  in  at  the  win 
dow,  and  both  inside  and  out  the 
silence  was  unbroken.  How  well  I 
remember  thinking  that  from  this 
day  everything  in  that  fair  outside 
blossom-laden  world  and  within  this 
quiet  home  would  take  a  new  colour- 


12     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

ing  and  have  a  new  meaning — for 
better,  or  for  worse. 

And  then — in  the  middle  of  a 
name,  the  pen  went  wrong.  There 
was  a  splutter  and  a  blot.  For  the 
stillness  was  suddenly  broken  by  the 
strangest  and  most  indescribable  sound 
a  man  is  ever  permitted  to  hear  in 
this  queer  world — a  little  small  wee 
voice  lifted  up  in  complaint  at  the 
newness  of  things.  How  much  and 
how  little  in  a  sound  !  It  was  the 
awakening  out  of  the  "  sleep  and  the 
forgetting."  Another  Traveller  stop 
ping  for  a  little  at  the  Wayside  Inn. 
So  she  came  to  us  trailing  her  little 
glory  cloud  from  God.  And  the  light 
of  her  little  glory  cloud  made  the  fair 
blossom-laden  world  forever  fairer, 
and  the  quiet  home  forever  homelier. 

Womenfolks  said  she  was  like  her 
father — menfolks  said  she  was  like 
her  mother — but  the  wisest  people  al 
ways  said  she  was  like  us  both.  We 
ourselves  thought  there  was  nobody 
else  like  her.  Do  not  imagine,  how- 


The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD     13 

ever,  that  I  mean  to  distress  you  with 
a  detailed  description  of  a  child  which 
by  this  time  you  must  know  so  well. 
A  man  never  appears  at  such  disad 
vantage  as  when  he  tries  to  explain 
what  I  may  call — without  offending 
your  sensitive  feelings — the  salient 
features  and  distressful  habits  of  an 
infant.  I  have  no  desire  of  appearing 
at  any  disadvantage,  even  before  you. 
You  are  a  man.  To  a  man,  a  child 
never  becomes  really  unbreakable  in 
the  handling  until  after  the  twelfth 
month.  Most  uncles,  a  few  old  maids, 
and  all  bachelors  have  a  strong  sus 
picion  that  babies  are  brittle.  "  Lusty  " 
is  the  word  which,  from  experience,  I 
would  suggest.  But  be  that  as  it  may, 
it  is  a  notorious  fact  that  the  average 
man  never  appreciates  a  baby  until  it 
has  ceased  to  be  a  baby — that  is,  until 
it  can  stand,  and  therefore  can  be  laid 
down — if  necessary — and  left.  But 
you  are  not  an  average  man.  At  all 
stages  and  at  all  hours,  in  the  day 
time  and  in  the  night-time,  you  loved 


14     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

your  child  and  appreciated  your  child. 
Only  on  rare  occasions  did  you  lower 
yourself  by  feeling  virtuous  because 
you  had  to  sacrifice  your  sleep — sit 
ting  bolt  upright  with  heavy-lidded 
eyes,  by  the  light  of  a  candle,  and 
with  many  a  yawn  and  sigh,  or  per 
ambulating  the  resounding  chamber 
in  the  small  hours.  Bishop  Thorold 
says  that  whenever  a  parent  begins  to 
feel  virtuous  in  sacrificing  his  sleep 
for  his  child,  he  ceases  to  love  his 
child.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  the 
Bishop  must  have  kept  a  night  nurse. 
But  this,  at  least,  was  your  blessed 
compensation — that  in  these  twelve 
educative  months  you  saw  the  glory 
of  more  dawns  than  you  did  during 
the  whole  period  of  your  previous  life. 
That  is  all  past.  A  child  becomes 
an  actual  personality  to  be  reckoned 
with  at  the  thirteenth  month.  Our 
darling  is  now  rising  two  years.  Hair 
— golden  yellow  falling  on  the  shoul 
ders.  Eyes — speedwell  blue.  Cheeks 
— ruddy  brown  and  chubby.  Brow — 


The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD     15 

high  and  intellectual,  but  with  the 
slightest  suggestion  of  anxiety  written 
upon  it — like  her  mother.  Add  to 
these,  a  pair  of  lusty  lungs,  two 
dimpled  hands  with  folded  bracelets 
of  pink  flesh  at  the  wrists,  a  brace  of 
restless  feet,  together  with  a  spirit  that 
is  sunny  and  rampageous  turn  about. 
There  she  is,  her  mother's  pride,  her 
father's  doting  treasure — the  Finest 
Baby  in  the  World. 


LETTER  No.   TWO 


The  Mystery  of  The  Dawn 

IN  my  last  letter  I  told  you  that 
the  Rogue  was  rising  two.  Since  then 
she  has  had  a  birthday.  So  now  she 
is  rising  three.  I  know  your  interest 
in  her  is  unending.  I  shall  therefore 
write  to  you  about  the  Daybreak  and 
the  Dawn,  pointing  out  to  you  some 
thing  of  the  poetry  of  childhood,  with 
special  reference  to  early  rising.  And 
I  shall  tell  you  the  truth.  People 
who  write  about  children  should  al 
ways  tell  the  truth.  For  to  translate 
a  child's  simplest  day  into  words  is  to 
narrate  one  of  the  Seven  Wonders  of 
the  World.  The  moment  we  begin 
to  invent  things  which  we  think  chil 
dren  ought  to  say,  we  tumble  down 
to  the  commonplace.  With  child 
hood,  as  indeed  with  man,  it  is  the 
actual  that  is  ever  the  most  wonder- 
16 


The  MrSTER  Y  of  The  DAWN       1 7 

ful.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  truth  is 
stranger  than  fiction.  Let  me  tell 
you  the  truth,  then,  about  your  child 
and  mine,  and  you  cannot  fail  to  read. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  her 
baptismal  name  is.  You  were  present 
in  the  old  village  church  that  hot 
July  day  she  "  got  her  name,"  as  the 
villagers  say.  You  remember  how  gay 
the  world  looked  then,  and  how  the 
ancient  font  was  wreathed  in  roses — 
the  choicest  blooms  out  of  your  own 
garden,  grown  under  your  tender 
care,  and  cut  the  night  before  with 
your  own  hands.  The  scent  of  the 
roses  filled  the  church  that  drowsy 
day,  and  you  did  not  listen  to  the 
sermon  very  much.  The  doors  were 
standing  wide  open  for  air,  and  you 
heard  the  droning  of  bees  and  the 
singing  of  birds — your  own  bees,  and 
I  might  almost  say  your  own  birds, 
for  did  they  not  hum  and  sing  in  the 
very  garden  where  she  received  her 
earliest  impressions  of  the  summer 
world?  You  were  proud  of  your 


18     The  FINEST  BABT  in  The  WORLD 

roses  that  day,  you  were  proud  of 
your  baby-girl,  but  I  think  you  were 
proudest  of  all  of  her  mother,  and  you 
thanked  God  there  were  roses  bloom 
ing  on  her  cheeks  once  more. 

The  name  you  gave  her  was  Mar 
garet — for  Margarita  means  a  pearl. 
And  while  the  ceremony  went  on,  you 
knew  that  in  a  back  seat  there  were 
two  gray-haired  men  and  two  benevo 
lent-faced  ladies  (not  so  very  old)  look 
ing  on.  The  men  of  gray  hairs,  you 
could  hear,  were  clearing  their  throats 
in  a  nervous  way,  as  men  do  when 
they  have  a  suspicion  that  they  are 
on  the  verge  of  committing  a  foolish 
ness  ;  and  the  benevolent  ladies  you 
could  also  hear  were  fumbling  amid 
a  rustle  of  silk  for  that  most  unfind- 
able  of  all  things — the  pocket  of  a 
Sunday  gown.  The  church  was  very 
warm,  to  be  sure — so  they  sought  their 
handkerchiefs.  Ah,  tender-hearted 
grandmothers,  and  gray-headed  grand 
fathers,  you  have  been  through  it  all ! 
It  seems  like  yesterday  since  you 


The  MTSTER  Y  of  The  DAWN       19 

scowled  at  the  parson  for  putting  so 
much  water  on  the  darlings'  faces — 
and  now,  can  it  actually  be  these 
same  darlings  who  are  scowling  to-day 
for  the  same  reason  ?  Time  flies.  But 
gray  heads  remember.  And  memor 
ies  make  the  heart  grow  wondrously 
tender. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  the  point. 
I  shall  often  wander  in  these  letters. 
The  subject  of  them  is  so  elusive. 
She  is  like  a  sunbeam — you  can  never 
catch  her,  and  she  is  difficult  to 
describe.  That  baptismal  morn  is  far 
away — in  time — now.  The  Pearl,  the 
Rogue,  the  May  Blossom  is  rising 
three.  I  am  a  country  man,  so  you 
must  excuse  that  term — savouring 
however  much  it  may  be  of  colts  and 
fillies. 

And  now  let  me  tell  you  something 
of  the  early-rising  habits  of  the  Pearl. 
First,  I  must  explain  that  our  days 
and  nights  have  lost  all  measured 
marge  or  fringe.  Night  used  to  begin 
when  we  fell  asleep,  and  day  was 


20     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

ushered  in  with  the  morning  bath 
and  the  hot  water.  But  now  I  am 
awake  when  all  other  folks  are  asleep, 
and  asleep  when  all  the  world  is  wide 
awake.  Day  and  night  have  simply 
bartered  hour  for  hour  without  so 
much  as  saying  By  your  leave.  In 
deed,  were  it  not  for  the  fixed  hours 
at  which  we  take  our  meals,  there 
would  be  nothing  stationary  about  our 
life  at  all.  For  many  months  she  re 
quired  maternal  and  paternal  instruc 
tion  every  alternate  hour  of  her  sleep 
ing-time.  Sleep  to  her  was  a  play 
thing — to  us,  a  butterfly  we  could 
never  catch.  Night  then  became  like 
certain  harmonies  in  the  first  part  of 
the  Moonlight  Sonata — plaintive,  sad, 
and  long-drawn-out.  Our  very  faces 
took  the  colouring  of  the  winter 
dawns  by  reason  of  our  much  looking 
upon  the  pale  light,  and  I  can  re 
member  that,  at  times,  it  took  one 
hundred  and  forty-three  "  shoogy 
shoos  "  (as  she  is  pleased  now  to  call 
them)  to  rock  her  asleep  again  in  my 


The  MrSTER  T  of  The  DAWN       2 1 

arms.     But,  as  the  poet  Wordsworth 
aptly  has  it  — 

' '  That  time  is  past,  , 

And  all  ita  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint  I  nor  mourn  nor  murmur  :  other  gifts 
Have  followed  :  for  such  loss  I  would  believe 
Abundant  recompense." 

These  words  are  autobiographical, 
and  refer  to  the  family  difficulties  of 
Wordsworth's  early  married  life, 
when,  as  is  well  known,  he  was  too 
poor  to  keep  a  nurse.  Yes,  the  gifts 
that  follow  make  a  truly  abundant 
recompense — and  they  would  need  to 
do  that.  For  now  the  Rogue  sleeps 
soundly,  but  if  she  does  wake  up  to 
demand  ar  drink  of  water  it  is  sure  to 
be  when  slumber  seals  our  eyelids 
with  a  leaden  weight.  And  when 
one's  eyes  are  drunk  with  sleep  it  is 
so  easy  to  bark  one's  shins  against  the 
dressing-table.  Then  follows,  of  dire 
necessity,  a  muttered  expletive — but 
strictly  under  breath.  For  did  one 
speak  it  out,  she  would  be  sure  to 


22     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

hear,  and  then  would  rise  a  piping 
voice  in  the  dawn  dusk,  "  What 
dadda  saying,  mummum?"  And — 
her  mother  cannot  tell  a  lie. 

To  show  you  what  an  educative  in 
fluence  a  child  can  have  upon  a 
parent,  let  me  here  insert  a  little  aside. 
The  other  day,  when  I  was  working 
in  the  garden,  the  Rogue,  who  is  for 
ever  making  a  show  of  "  helping 
dadda,"  lifted  the  largest  rake.  She 
swung  it  heavily  and  slowly  behind 
my  back,  and  next  moment  the  finest 
tulip  in  the  bed  was  felled  to  the 
ground.  I  exclaimed  "  By !  "  re 
membering  just  in  time  to  omit  the 
mention  of  Jove  or  Jingo  or  some 
such  mild  deity,  lest  I  should  offend 
her  ear.  She  dropped  the  rake  (on 
another  tulip,  of  course),  stared 
solemnly  up  at  me,  and  said,  "  By 

!  "  in  the  self-same  tone  of  voice. 

Sir,  what  you  do  not  wish  your  child 
to  say  or  do,  never  say  or  do  your 
self.  ' 

So  in  the  night-time  I  suffer  many 


The  MTSTER  T  of  The  DAWN       23 

a  barked  shin  with  a  stifled  breath — 
and  the  darling  gulps  down  her  water. 
Then  she  is  laid  to  rest  again  in  her 
little  red  flannel  jacket  and  her  long 
white  nightgown.  The  crib  has  a  side 
to  it  that  folds  down,  and  is  pushed 
in  level  with  the  bed.  At  least,  the 
crib  is  raised  to  a  level  with  the  bed 
by  having  four  huge  leather-bound 
volumes  of  the  Imperial  Encyclopaedia 
placed  one  under  each  leg.  This  was 
her  father's  device  to  induce  sound 
sleep.  Even  her  dreams  now  are  built 
upon  great  and  weighty  thoughts.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  it  is  your  choice 
to  lie  beside  her — the  guardian  of  the 
Rogue's  repose.  She  falls  asleep  again, 
ragging  with  her  little  velvet  fingers 
most  wickedly  at  your  neck,  while 
you  lie  and  watch  her.  The  golden 
hair  is  parted  in  the  middle,  and  the 
blue  ribbons  still  tie  it  to  either  side — 
one  lover's  knot  over  each  temple. 
You  have  still  two  hours  till  hot- water 
time,  but  you  cannot  always  sleep 
to  order.  So  your  nights  are  spent  in 


24     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

snatching  heavy  draughts  of  slumber 
on  your  part,  and  calling  for  enor 
mous  draughts  of  water  on  her  part, 
and  watching  the  wonder  of  the  little 
sleeper's  rosy,  dreamlit  face  between. 

You  are  well  aware  that  our  win 
dow  faces  the  east.  How  often  you 
have  wondered  at  the  mystery  of  the 
dawn  as  you  looked  out  across  the 
waking  world  !  The  rolling  lands  and 
woods  lie  under  a  fairy  coverlet  of 
silver-gray.  Far  away  the  strip  of  sea 
stretches  east  and  west,  like  a  leaden 
girdle  to  the  earth.  The  three  light 
houses  wink  with  sleepless  eyes,  and 
send  their  warning  flashes  across  the 
northern  main.  Two  long  sleepy 
winks  from  Fidra,  four  bright  electric 
winks  from  the  May,  and  six  quick 
fiery  winks  from  the  Bass.  It  is  a 
glamorous  world  on  which  we  look 
down  from  our  upland  home  and 
watch  the  dawnlight  putting  out  the 
eyes  of  the  sea — and  but  for  the  dear 
Rogue  we  might  never  have  seen  it ! 

But  she  stirs.     She  throws  her  little 


The  MTSTER  Y  of  The  DAWN      25 

arms  about.  She  sits  up.  She  opens 
her  eyes.  She  creeps  across  the  heavy 
breathing  form  of  her  guardian.  She 
lays  her  warm  lips  against  his  and 
kisses  him.  This  is  her  way  of  wak 
ing  us.  And  then  she  speaks. 

"  Want  to  see  the  dingle-leeries, 
dadda — please,  dadda." 

A  grumph,  a  groan,  another  kiss, 
and  the  blankets  heave. 

"  All  right.    But  who  are  you  ?  " 

"  The  wee  Maid." 

"  Ah,  you're  a  Rogue." 

"  Dadda's  Rogie  pogie,"  she  says,  as 
she  holds  out  her  arms  to  be  lifted. 
But  who  could  ever  reproduce  the 
heavenly  inflection  of  her  voice  as  she 
sings  the  words? 

So  she  is  carried  to  the  window. 
She  looks  out.  The  lighthouses  flash 
and  wink  and  revolve  in  silent  suc 
cession  far  away,  telling  of  some  sleep 
less  watchers  over  the  mariner's  track. 
The  wonder  of  the  dawn  is  on  her 
face,  and  a  light  of  mystery  is  in  her 
eyes.  Who  can  say  what  a  child 


26     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

thinks  ?  Who  can  tell  what  a  child 
knows?  At  least,  there  is  some 
strange  battle  of  ideas  going  on  inside 
the  little  head,  as  the  brain  tries  to 
lay  away  with  accuracy  its  impres 
sions  of  the  picture  which  the  blue 
eyes  look  upon  and  convey  to  it. 
Then  the  light  grows  suddenly 
brighter.  The  electric  eyes  far  out  at 
sea  begin  to  pale.  Behind  the  billowy 
line  of  hills  the  sky  blushes  with  a 
rose  of  dawn,  and  while  we  gaze  and 
gaze,  the  first  shaft  of  sunrise  shoots 
over  the  top  of  Lammerlaw  and  lays 
a  beam  of  light  across  the  wooded 
plains. 

Then  she  speaks  one  word. 

"  Dod  1 " 

What  more  could  a  wise  man  say  ? 
What  single  word  could  better  de 
scribe  the  meaning  and  mystery  of 
dawn  ?  God  !  What  power  within 
the  little  brain  imagined  and  made 
choice  so  unerringly  ?  Who  can  tell  ? 

Then  the  sun  appears,  and  she 
speaks  again — two  words  this  time. 


Tbt  MTSTER  T  of  The  DAWN       27 

"  Dod's  dingle-leerie  !  " 

"  Yes,  little  Pearl ;  it  is  God's  din 
gle-leerie.  It  is  God.  He  is  looking 
at  us." 

"  Yes,"  she  whispers. 

"  And  we  are  not  afraid  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  come  to  bed  again." 

"  For  a  wee  minute,  dadda." 

"  All  right." 

So  we  lie  down  again.  And  she  is 
soon  as  sound  asleep  as  ever.  The 
"  wee  minute  "  stretches  out  for  two 
hours.  She  smiles  in  her  sleep. 
Nurse  tells  us  that  children  smile  in 
their  sleep  when  they  are  seeing  an 
gels.  It  may  be.  For  the  little  ones 
see  more  than  we  do.  If  she  is  smil 
ing  now,  what  wonder  !  She  has  just 
seen  God. 


The  Unexpressed  Fear 

I  WISH  to  write  to  you  this  time 
about  a  new  discovery  which  her 
mother  and  I  have  made.  In  the 
old  days,  I  remember  how  you  used 
to  live  alone  in  those  vasty  rooms  on 
the  north  side  of  the  city.  Your 
lodgment  was  sufficiently  aristocratic, 
but  you  will  permit  me  to  say  that 
for  lack  of  dusting  your  rooms  al 
ways  looked  best  in  candle-light. 
That,  however,  is  beside  the  point. 
You  were  once  ill  in  those  bachelor 
days,  and  you  lay  one  whole  night 
companioned  by  pain.  No  one 
helped  you.  You  had  to  help  your 
self.  You  heard  every  hour  strike. 
Yet  I  remember  how  you  told  me 
afterwards  that  you  felt  a  certain 
dogged  joy  in  suffering.  No  one  else 
was  made  to  suffer.  So  you  entered 
28 


The  UNEXPRESSED  FEAR         29 

up  the  memory  of  the  experience  next 
morning  in  your  private  diary — that 
little  book  which  is  written  with  ink 
that  is  both  invisible  and  indelible — 
and  locked  it  away  in  your  safe. 

But,  my  dear  old  friend,  I  have 
found  a  pain  in  which  there  is  no 
particle  of  joy.  The  Pearl  has  been 
ill  for  the  first  time.  We  had  to  look 
upon  her  suffering  and  screaming 
with  pain.  Of  course  it  happened  at 
night — that  time  when  everything 
takes  a  more  tragic  colouring.  We 
did  not  know  what  was  wrong.  We 
could  not  take  the  cursed  pain  away 
from  her.  At  that  moment  it  would 
have  been  a  pleasure  to  thrust  hand 
or  foot  into  a  furnace  to  give  her  five 
minutes'  respite.  To  die  for  her 
would  have  seemed  so  easy  that  there 
would  have  been  no  self-sacrifice  in 
it.  But  living  is,  on  the  whole,  a 
great  deal  harder  than  dying.  So  we 
worked  away — trying  one  thing  after 
another — goaded  into  desperation  by 
the  thought  that  the  doctor  lived 


30     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

miles  away  across  the  country — until 
at  last  we  got  at  the  reason  of  the 
pain,  and  applying  a  remedy,  the 
poor  little  Rogue  gave  over  clutching 
at  our  necks,  and  was  at  rest  again. 
We  dried  her  tears.  Then  she  fell 
asleep. 

You  ask  me  if  she  was  very  ill.  I 
answer,  that  there  is  only  one  degree 
in  a  child's  illness,  and  that  is  the 
superlative.  To-day  she  may  be 
dancing  and  laughing  on  her  moth 
er's  knee — to-morrow,  who  can  tell? 
They  are  rapid  little  mortals — soon 
up  and  soon  down.  And  when  they 
suffer,  those  who  love  them  always 
fear  the  worst. 

Of  course  it  turned  out  to  be  but  a 
child's  passing  trouble.  Quick  to 
come,  and  just  as  quick  to  go.  But 
— we  saw  the  Shadow  in  it.  We  al 
ways  see  the  Shadow  in  it  now.  I 
can  remember  the  first  morning  we 
saw  the  Shadow.  She  was  playing 
and  capering  in  her  high  sparred  cot. 
We  were  dressing.  Suddenly  we 


The  UNEXPRESSED  FEAR         31 

heard  a  thud,  and  looking  round,  we 
saw  she  had  tumbled  a  somersault  on 
to  the  floor.  When  we  picked  her 
up,  the  colour  had  entirely  left  her 
face.  At  that  moment  she  was  as 
good  as  dead  to  us.  Had  she  died, 
we  could  not  have  suffered  more. 
We  actually  saw  her  dead.  We  re- 

«/ 

hearsed  the  process  which  every 
mother  has  sooner  or  later  to  go 
through,  and  we  felt  the  vital  wrench 
in  the  heart.  And  yet — it  was  only 
a  fall.  She  will  have  many  such,  I 
suppose,  before  she  gets  through. 
She  came  to  no  harm.  She  was  as 
full  of  life  in  half  an  hour  as  she  had 
ever  been,  and  just  as  full  of  forget- 
fulness.  But  we  did  not  forget.  We 
had  made  our  first  acquaintance  with 
the  Shadow. 

And  so  it  always  is  now.  There 
are  no  little  pains  to  us  in  her  ail 
ments.  We  go  through  the  same 
process  every  time  she  is  ill.  We  see 
dangers  which  may  never  come. 
Perhaps  the  grandmothers  would 


32     The  FINEST  BAB  Yin  The  WORLD 

smile  at  us.  But  no — they  would 
not  smile,  for  they  know.  Every 
mother  knows.  Every  one  who 
really  loves  a  child  knows.  We 
must  pay  for  the  exquisite  joys  of 
love  in  a  price  of  pain. 

"  They  suffer  most,  that  most  have  power  to  love." 

So  the  unexpressed  fear  has  come  to 
us.  It  makes  us  love  her  so  much 
more.  And  I  think  the  intensifying 
of  the  love  is  ample  compensation  for 
the  coming  of  the  Shadow.  How  the 
Rogue  has  let  us  into  the  very  middle 
of  life !  How  children  teach  us  the 
deepness  of  the  water  !  A  man  is  only 
half  a  man  until  he  has  a  child  to 
teach  him  the  things  in  life  which  he 
cannot  possibly  know  except  through 
fatherhood.  No  wonder  the  mystery 
and  its  meaning  are  hidden  from  the 
wise  and  prudent — for  the  only  way 
of  understanding  is  to  learn  from 
babes.  As  for  a  woman,  she  has  a 
sense  of  motherhood  from  the  begin- 


The  UNEXPRESSED  FEAR         33 

ning,  from  the  first  day  she  holds  a 
doll.  But  a  man — he  has  to  learn 
fatherhood  through  his  child. 

At  this  moment  I  go  next  door, 
from  the  lamplit  room  and  the  com 
pany  of  the  book-shelves,  and  what 
do  I  see?  A  little  rosy-faced  maiden 
asleep.  The  bloom  of  perfect  health 
is  on  her  cheeks,  and  the  mystery  of 
dreams  is  playing  like  a  light  of 
heaven  over  her  fast  closed  eyes. 
How  she  was  running  and  rampaging 
and  laughing  an  hour  ago !  And 
now,  how  sound  is  her  sleep  !  There 
is  no  shadow  on  that  face,  no  tear  on 
that  cheek.  Sleep  on,  priceless  pearl. 
We  will  not  wake  you.  We  love  you 
with  a  love  that  often  hurts.  But  we 
will  never  tell  you  about  shadows  or 
fears.  We  will  pray  now  and  always 
to  the  good  God,  who  came  Himself 
to  this  world  as  a  child,  the  Father 
who  understands  us  better  than  we 
can  ever  understand  you — and  then, 
we  too  will  lay  ourselves  down  beside 
you  and  sleep. 


34 


The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

Little  Lamb,  asleep  and  still, 
God  protect  thee  from  all  ill; 
Those  who  love  thee  ne'er  can  be 
Free  from  pain  in  loving  thee. 

For  thou  art  so  wondrous  dear, 
That  their  blinded  hearts  do  fear 
Lest  some  shadow  fall  on  thee. 
Even  Death — they  often  see  ! 

Foolish  hearts  !    Thy  baby  child, 
With  her  face  so  sweet  and  mild, 
Is  in  God's  own  keeping  now, 
With  His  glory  on  her  brow. 

Love  her  always,  love  her  well. 
And  for  shadows,  who  can  tell 
How  God  means  to  pave  the  way 
For  the  little  feet  each  day  ? 

Take  thy  joy  and  revel  in  it, 
Living  through  each  golden  minute, 
Trusting  God  who  gave  you  this 
Baby  child  to  love  and  kiss. 


LETTER  No.  FOUR 


My  Invisible   Spurs 

THERE  are  some  things  which  a  man 
does  not  care  to  tell  any  one  else — not 
even  his  wife.  These  are  the  things 
which  I  am  going  to  tell  you  now. 
Had  I  not  you  to  write  to,  I  would  not 
know  sometimes  where  to  turn  for  a 
confidant.  You  say  a  married  man 
should  never  be  at  a  loss  for  a  listen 
ing  ear.  I  know  what  you  mean. 
But  it  would  never  do  to  tell  her. 
For  what  I  am  going  to  speak  about 
is  very  vitally  connected  with  her. 

The  truth  is,  that  of  late  I  have 
been  conscious  of  strange  acute  little 
pains  all  over  my  body  and — soul. 
At  first  they  were  but  trifling  things 
— tiny  pricks  of  fire,  as  it  were,  which 
made  one  smart  and  start  at  all  times 
and  on  the  most  absurd  occasions. 
At  first  I  used  to  think  that  there 
35 


36     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

must  be  a  mark  left  on  the  flesh,  and 
again  and  again  have  I  gone  and 
looked  at  the  place  where  I  felt  the 
smart  of  pain.  But  there  was  noth 
ing  visible.  Yet  all  these  tiny  pricks 
I  invariably  felt  about  the  same 
quarter — round  the  heart,  in  that  por 
tion  of  the  body  where  man's  soul, 
with  all  its  affections  and  desires,  is 
supposed  by  experts  to  be  situate.  I 
went  to  the  family  physician  and  asked 
if  I  had  heart  disease.  But  he  laughed 
and  said  No,  and  told  me  to  go  home 
and  be  very  thankful.  I  did  not  un 
derstand  then  what  he  meant  or  why 
he  laughed.  But  I  understand  now. 

The  reason  why  I  am  now  confiding 
in  you  is,  that  of  late  I  have  become 
conscious  of  two  pains,  and  not  one. 
One  is  a  decided  sharp  stab — the  other 
is  a  tiny  prick.  I  feel  them  most 
when  I  am  idle — so  much  so,  that  now 
I  dare  not  remain  idle  for  any  time, 
else  the  pains  begin  to  hurt.  The 
moment  I  start  work  again,  they  dis 
appear — somewhat.  But  be  I  idle  or 


MT  INVISIBLE  SPURS  37 

busy,  they  are  always  there,  more  or 
less,  and  I  have  got  into  the  habit  of 
calling  them  my  Invisible  Spurs. 

Now,  sir,  here  is  my  secret.  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Rogue 
and  her  mother  are  the  unconscious 
authors  of  these  pricks.  They  are  my 
Invisible  Spurs.  They  goad  me  on 
more  incessantly  than  the  Hebrew 
ploughman  of  old  did  his  oxen  in  the 
fields.  And  yet  the  dear  things  are 
all  unconscious  of  the  sharpness  of  the 
spurs.  Does  any  man  feel  that  he  is 
losing  his  grip  of  things  and  that  his 
ambitions  and  desires  are  slipping 
away  from  him?  Then  let  him  ac 
quire  just  such  a  pair  of  spurs.  Let 
him  take  his  own  way  of  acquiring 
them.  But  Invisible  Spurs  are  the 
only  hope  for  the  man  who  is  sliding 
into  indifference.  Only — let  him  re 
member  that  once  he  has  obtained 
possession  of  the  Spurs,  he  cannot  lay 
them  aside  when  he  finds  they  are 
stinging  him  with  a  painful  persist 
ency.  There  are  some  things  which 


38     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WOR  LD 

you  cannot  sell.  Nay,  never  since  the 
world  began  has  any  true  man  de 
sired  to  bargain  about  his  Spurs. 

You  know  by  this  time  what  I 
mean.  For  you  yourself  in  the  old 
days  were  an  expert  in  the  art  of  tak 
ing  things  easy.  When  the  hot  sum 
mer  days  came,  you  remember  how 
you  used  to  tumble  into  a  hammock 
under  the  trees  and  dream  the  hours 
away,  careless  of  aught  else  but  your 
enjoyment  of  the  moments  as  they 
crawled  like  lazy  dogs  across  the  sun 
lit  lawn.  You  took  your  holidays 
greedily,  and  ralways  came  back  feel 
ing  you  could  have  done  very  well 
with  more.  You  were  the  victim  of 
many  desires  and  ambitions,  but  what 
did  it  matter  though  you  never  realized 
them !  You  had  no  one  to  work  for, 
and  it  is  a  poor  thing  to  make  oneself 
the  goal  of  one's  ambitions.  Yes,  you 
were  a  pleasant,  easy-going  man  in 
those  days.  There  was  nothing  spe 
cially  objectionable  about  you,  but 
there  was  certainly  nothing  specially 


Mr  INVISIBLE  SPURS  39 

strenuous  about  you.  You  dug  your 
heels  into  many  a  horse  and  made  the 
poor  brute  fly  across  the  turf  like  a 
streak  of  lightning,  but  you  never 
felt  the  prick  of  the  spurs  yourself. 

Now  it  is  all  changed.  It  is  your 
turn  to  feel  the  spurs.  You  are  the 
horse,  my  friend,  and  not  the  rider.  It 
is  sometimes  difficult  to  believe  that  I 
am  you — the  same  man  as  the  ham 
mock-dreamer,  who  in  the  long  ago 
criticised  at  leisure  the  passing  hours. 
It  is  true,  all  the  same,  and  yet  it  is 
not  true.  The  Invisible  Spurs  have 
made  all  the  difference.  You  are  a  new 
creature  since  you  felt  the  pricks. 
You  have  been  tumbled  out  of  your 
hammock,  and  all  your  pleasure  now 
is  in  rocking  some  one  else  in  it.  You 
try  sometimes  to  sit  still  in  the  garden 
on  the  summer  days  and  dream  the 
old  dreams.  But  you  do  not  sit  long. 
You  have  lost  the  art  of  idling.  You 
jump  to  your  feet  smarting.  Oh, 
these  awful  Spurs ! 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?    Why  can't 


40     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

you  sit  still  for  a  little?"  asks  her 
mother. 

And  what  can  you  say?  Like  a 
stupid  fool,  you  hum,  and  haw  for  a 
while,  and  then,  when  their  backs  are 
turned,  slink  into  the  house  and  take 
off  your  coat  and  send  the  pen  flying 
over  the  clean  fresh  sheets.  You  dare 
not  tell  her  about  the  Spurs.  It  is 
now  one  of  the  pathetic  secrets  of 
your  life,  that  when  the  Rogue  and 
her  mother  wish  to  idle  an  hour  with 
them,  you  always  excuse  yourself,  and 
appear  churlish  by  going  and  doing 
something.  They  do  not  understand. 
Why  should  they  ?  You  could  never 
think  of  charging  these  two  dear  souls 
with  giving  your  pain.  This  is  one  of 
the  inevitable  and  inexplicable  messes 
into  which  matrimony  lands  a  well- 
intentioned  man.  Do  not  try  to  ex 
plain.  Let  the  secret  rest.  It  is 
better  they  should  never  know. 

So  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to 
be  permanently  unsettled,  constantly 
ambitious,  never  content  with  your- 


MT  INVISIBLE  SPURS  41 

self,  always  planning  some  new  work. 
When  you  go  for  a  holiday  now,  you 
are  no  sooner  away  than  the  Spurs  be 
gin  their  deadly  work,  and  you  wish 
you  were  back  again.  When  you  run 
into  town  for  a  day,  you  stop,  of 
course,  to  have  a  look  at  the  shop 
windows.  Another  prick  or  two,  and 
a  voice  whispers,  "  Buy  this  for  the 
one,  and  that  for  the  other,  and  do 
without  yon  for  yourself."  Your 
very  income  has  been  overhauled, 
and  you  spend  it  on  a  new  principle. 
You  measure  it  now  by  the  price  of  cos 
tumes  and  small  frocks — not,  as  of  old, 
by  first  editions  and  Elzevirs.  You 
have  become  a  very  restless  mortal  in 
deed.  Even  when  the  day  is  done,  and 
you  be  slumbering  in  the  quiet  room, 
you  start  in  your  sleep  again  and  again. 
You  used  to  slumber  like  a  mahogany 
log — now  you  are  one  of  the  lightest 
of  sleepers.  A  Spur  pricks  you.  A 
little  hand  touches  your  face  like  a 
silken  pad  of  velvet  in  the  dark — you 
take  it  in  your  own  strong  hand  and 


42     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

remember  the  line  which  expresses 
the  prayer  of  a  distressed  soul  seek 
ing  God  in  the  gloom ! 

"  Hold  Thou  my  hands." 

Then  you  lie  awake,  and  stare  at 
the  guttering  light  in  the  still  room. 
You  wish  the  morning  would  come, 
that  you  might  get  up  and  begin  to 
work  again  for  them  both.  Strange, 
past  all  strangeness,  that  the  touch  of 
a  little  velvet  hand  in  the  night 
should  have  the  same  effect  upon  you 
as  the  lash  of  the  driver  on  the  slave. 
But  the  little  soft  hand  and  the  knot 
ted  whip  are  surely  not  the  same  I 
The  whip  drives  by  law — the  tiny 
hand  by  love. 

So  now  you  know  something  of  the 
joy  which  seeks  men  in  this  life  and 
finds  them  through  pain.  It  is  the 
thrice  blessed  pain  of  the  Spurs  In 
visible.  You  would  not  be  without 
them  for  the  world.  The  pricks  keep 
you  alive.  The  day  you  can  no  longer 
feel  their  pain,  that  day  you  will  die. 


Mr  INVISIBLE  SPURS  43 

I  am  sitting  writing  all  this  to  you 
in  my  garden  on  a  midsummer  day, 
beneath  the  shade  of  the  trees.  The 
air  is  full  of  the  droning  of  bees.  The 
birds  are  singing  happily  among  the 
branches.  A  sweet  scent  of  blossom 
is  wafted  on  every  breath  of  the  south 
land  wind.  It  is  a  day  to  do  nothing 
but  dream.  Then,  a  sound  above 
every  sound  in  Nature  !  A  little  sil 
ver  voice  !  And  the  Rogue  comes  up 
the  sunlit  pathway,  holding  her 
mother's  hand.  Look  at  them !  The 
Bit  Ladye  is  dressed  in  a  great  broad- 
brimmed  garden  hat  and  a  summery 
gown,  with  a  bunch  of  crimson  roses 
at  her  belt ;  and  the  Rogue,  in  pink 
cotton  and  sandals,  twinkles  along  at 
her  side.  In  the  little  hand  is  grasped 
a  strangely  assorted  bunch  of  wild 
flowers — dandelions,  buttercups,  dai 
sies,  and  weeds  !  And  when  she  shows 
them  proudly  to  her  father,  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  she  calls  the  first-named 
flowers  dam-ihe-lions. 

There  they  are— so  happy,  so  un- 


44     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

conscious,  and  so  gay,  in  the  garden 
path.  If  I  could  only  sit  still !  But 
no.  The  Spurs  have  begun  to  prick 
already.  My  sorrow,  how  they  hurt ! 
I  am  on  my  feet  in  a  moment. 

"  Why  can't  you  sit  still  now,  and 
put  away  your  writing  on  a  lovely 
day  like  this?"  exclaims  she  of  the 
crimson  roses. 

If  she  only  knew  ! 

"  My  dear,  I  have  just  something  to 
finish,  and  will  be  back  presently." 

And  I  disappear. 

They  stand  gazing  after  me  in  as 
tonishment,  and  marvel  at  the  mood 
of  churlish  industry  which  seems  to 
contradict  the  very  spirit  of  the  sum 
mer  day.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart 
to  stay,  but  I  dare  not.  Pearl  Marga 
ret  and  the  Mother  of  Pearl  cast  re 
proachful  glances  after  me.  I  can 
feel  them  looking  at  me.  And  yet, 
ah  yet — if  they  only  knew,  it  is  all  a 
matter  of  Invisible  Spurs  ! 


LETTER  No.  FIFE 


A  Haunted  House 

THEY  have  both  gone  away.  I  am 
here  alone.  I  need  not  explain  why 
I  write  to  you  this  time.  It  was  a 
bright  warm  day  when  they  went 
away,  with  the  usual  small  stir  at  the 
garden  gate — a  hansom  followed  by 
a  cart  with  the  trunks  and  the  odds 
and  ends.  Yes,  you  have  guessed 
aright.  I  was  in  the  cart.  Do  you 
remember  the  days  when  you  used  to 
go  away  on  holiday  with  a  bag  in  one 
hand  and  a  fishing-rod  in  the  other  ? 
You  will  never  go  away  like  that 
again.  For  the  mystery  of  your 
triple  happiness  is  now  very  largely 
a  matter  of  hat  boxes  and  dress 
trunks.  But  then,  was  this  not  the 
motto  which  you  put  on  her  wedding- 
ring,  "Oam  te  omnia,  sine  te  nihil  "f  It 
is  your  motto  still.  So  holiday  means 
45 


46     The  FINEST  EABYin  The  WORLD 

the  Bit  Ladye.  And  if  she  goes,  the 
Rogue  must  go.  And  if  the  Rogue 
goes,  Nurse  must  go.  Step  in,  then — 
one,  two,  three,  and  by  this  time  you 
will  understand  there  is  no  room  for 
me.  So  I  follow  in  the  cart  with  the 
gather-ups. 

Here,  then,  is  the  ratio  of  your  old 
life  to  your  new  life  :  — 

As  one  travelling  bag  is  to  one 
hansom  multiplied  by  one  cart, 
one  go-cart,  one  bicycle,  with 
trunks,  wraps,  hat  boxes,  and  a 
maid  :  so  is  a  bachelor  unattached 
to  the  Finest  Baby  in  the  World. 
Take  the  square  of  your  pocket- 
book  on  your  return  home,  and 
you  will  realize  the  measure  of  the 
smallest  denominator  in  the  world. 
That,  sir,  is  your  matrimonial  equa 
tion,  to  a  fraction ! 

But  to  return.  Of  course  I  went 
with  them  all  the  way,  and  stayed  for 
a  day  or  two.  But  very  soon  the 
Spurs  began  to  work  havoc  with  the 
leisure  hours.  So  I  returned  to-day — 


A  HAUNTED  HO  USE  47 

to  work.  I  am  alone.  The  house  is 
like  a  tomb.  The  six  clocks,  which 
it  is  my  delight  to  hear  ticking  and 
striking  together,  are  run  down.  I 
stood  in  the  hall,  on  entering,  and 
listened.  Not  a  sound  but  the  chirp 
ing  of  a  sparrow  outside.  I  walked 
into  the  nursery  and  opened  the 
shutters.  Why  did  I  go  in  there 
first  ?  By  instinct,  I  suppose.  In  the 
corner  was  a  great  heap  of  toys,  and 
on  the  table  lay  a  hatless  doll  in  ex 
tremis.  The  sight  of  the  doll  affected 
me  much  in  the  same  way  as  a  man 
is  affected  when  he  sees  a  ghost.  In 
the  dining-room,  by  the  organ,  I 
found  a  very  tattered  Bible  lying  on 
the  floor.  It  is  the  book  which  the 
Rogue  holds  upside  down  at  prayers. 
Out  of  it,  she  sings  all  her  hymns  in 
a  stentorian  voice  of  many  keys.  I 
lifted  the  book,  and  all  the  time  it 
was  in  my  hand  I  heard  her  little 
voice  singing  most  distinctly  — 

"  We  are  but  little  children  weak, 
Nor  born  to  any  high  estate." 


48     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

Up-stairs,  in  the  corner  of  the  bed 
room,  was  her  little  cot — painfully 
neat  and  trim  and  empty.  From 
sheer  custom,  I  walked  in  on  tiptoe 
and  listened  to  hear  if  she  was  sleep 
ing  soundly.  I  know  nothing  so  full 
of  speech  as  an  empty  cot.  You  will 
not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  reached 
over  and  tossed  the  miniature  blankets 
into  an  untidy  heap  and  made  a  dent 
in  the  middle  of  the  snow-white  pil 
low.  There  was  some  satisfaction  in 
doing  that. 

The  ghastliness  of  the  sheeted 
drawing-room  made  me  shiver  next. 
At  the  door  my  foot  kicked  against 
the  handle  of  a  tiny  carpet-sweeper. 
What  extraordinary  things  in  the 
most  unexpected  places  !  I  lifted  the 
toy  and  began  to  run  it  back  and 
forward  on  the  floor  with  short,  quick 
strokes.  It  brought  her,  by  some 
magic  of  association,  to  my  side  in  an 
instant. 

The  last  room  I  entered,  strange  to 
say,  was  my  own.  It  used  to  be  the 


A  HAUNTED  HO  USE  49 

first.  But  this  also  is  reversed.  Every 
thing  is  reversed  now.  I  look  at  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  the  first  thing  I  see 
is  a  photograph  of  a  little  fair-haired 
lady  in  a  bridal  dress  and  veil.  It 
seems  but  yesterday  since  that  veil 
was  first  raised  in  the  vestry.  There, 
on  the  other  side,  against  a  back 
ground  of  dark  velvet,  are  a  number 
of  miniatures.  She  is  there  at  all 
stages — the  Rogue  !  And  her  mother 
too,  from  the  time — long  ago  now — 
when  she  held  a  doll  in  her  arms  and 
looked  with  anxious  eyes  for  the  first 
time  into  the  mouth  of  a  camera. 
And  see,  now  the  Rogue  is  the  image 
of  what  her  mother  was  then  !  On  the 
three  lowest  book-shelves  the  books 
are  shoved  in  untidily,  here  and 
there.  That  was  the  work  of  the  lit 
tle  velvet  hands.  That  third  shelf  is 
the  very  measure  of  her  highest 
reach.  She  has  tried  a  thousand 
times  to  get  at  the  fourth  shelf,  but 
she  cannot.  So  on  the  five  upper 
shelves  the  books  are  hopelessly  tidy 


50     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

and  even.  Yonder,  too,  in  the  corner, 
hang  a  guitar  and  a  fiddle  by  the  side 
of  the  piano — to  these  she  dances 
with  wonderful  pit-a-pat  steps  on  the 
winter  afternoons,  when  the  candles 
are  lit  at  four,  and  the  curtains  are 
close  drawn,  and  the  fire  roars  in  the 
chimney. 

Hopeless,  hopeless,  hopeless — this  is 
no  preserve  of  yours.  Your  own 
room  is  no  longer  your  own.  You 
call  it  Sanctum — but  you  are  begin 
ning  to  learn  that  sanctity  is  not  made 
of  self.  On  the  very  glass  of  the  win 
dow,  as  you  look  out,  you  see  the 
mark  of  two  little  sticky  fingers  that 
she  must  have  drawn  over  the  pane 
when  last  her  mother  held  her  up  to 
see. 

Sit  down,  poor  forlorn  fool,  and 
rest.  Your  survey  is  over.  You  are 
in  a  haunted  house.  Nothing  here 
is  yours.  No  room  is  sanctuary. 
Everything  tells  the  same  tale.  For 
everything  is  related  to  a  fair-haired 
maid  of  two.  The  house  is  full  of 


A  HAUNTED  HO  USE  51 

tongues  and  yet  it  is  ringing  up  and 
down  with  a  horrid  silence.  Rise  up 
and  set  your  clocks  agoing.  Ticktock, 
ticktock  says  the  Wag-at-the-Wa'  on 
the  stair.  Then  another  and  another, 
until  the  whole  house  is  full  of 
chimes.  But  even  the  chimes  sound 
hollow.  There  is  an  echo  still.  Yes, 
there  will  always  be  an  echo  now 
when  you  are  alone.  You  have  come 
home  to  find  that  your  house  has  been 
taken  from  you.  Room  by  room,  the 
Robbers  have  stripped  you  of — your 
self !  The  sound  of  the  Robbers'  feet 
is  the  echo  which  you  hear  in  the 
silent  house.  You  thought  you  could 
obliterate  a  baby's  presence  in  your 
house — but  the  baby  has  obliterated 
you.  You  thought  you  could  tidy 
up  and  sweep  away  the  dusty  little 
footmarks.  But  to  efface  every  sug 
gestion  of  her  you  would  have  to 
burn  your  house  down  to  the  ground. 
And  even  then  you  could  not  get 
rid  of  yourself  and  your  love  for 
her. 


52     The  FINEST  EABY  in  The  WORLD 

No,  they  are  not  here,  these  two. 
And  yet,  most  mystic  of  all  alchemies, 
they  are  here  all  the  time !  You 
thought  you  would  leave  them  and 
come  back  to  work  alone,  so  you  trav 
elled  seventy  miles.  But  you  have 
brought  them  with  you.  They  are 
in  your  heart.  The  atmosphere  which 
you  breathe  in  these  empty  rooms — 
they  have  made  it.  A  haunted  house 
is  your  home,  now  and  for  all  time. 
But  you  are  not  very  much  afraid  of 
the  ghosts  ! 

In  the  darkness  you  stretch  out 
your  arm  and  feel  for  a  little  form. 
But  the  cot  is  empty,  and  your  hand 
falls  on  a  dented  pillow.  You  used 
to  think  you  could  not  sleep  for  the 
perpetual  caress  of  a  velvet  hand,  but 
now  you  cannot  sleep  for  the  want  of 
it.  So  you  lie  and  think.  You  try 
to  understand  it  all.  If  this  were  to 
go  on  always,  what  a  hall  of  ghosts 
a  man's  life  would  become !  Is  this 

how  a  man  feels  when !  But  no. 

I  cannot  put  down  that  thought  even 


A  HAUNTED  HO  USE 


53 


in  a  letter  to  you.  There  was  no 
light  burning  in  the  room  that  night. 
There  was  no  need  of  one.  And  it 
was  well. 


The  Conclusion   of  The 
Whole   Matter 

THIS  will  be  my  last  letter  to  you 
for  the  present.  I  am  going  to  write 
to  you  about  the  conclusion  of  the 
whole  matter.  For  I  know  that  your 
thoughts  are  often  very  long  and  wist 
ful  when  you  try  to  spell  out  the 
Eternal.  Your  religion  is  a  very  real 
thing  to  you,  although  you  talk  so 
little  about  it.  With  all  your  knowl 
edge  you  know  so  little,  and  yet  you 
are  always  trying  to  probe  the  Un 
seen.  You  once  told  me  that  in  the 
School  of  God  the  wisest  man  never 
gets  beyond  the  infant  class.  I 
thought  it  a  strange  idea  at  first,  but 
now  I  know  it  is  true.  For  in  the 
matter  of  the  Eternities  a  man's  only 
hope  of  learning  is  to  remain  in  the 
infant  class.  Children  invariably 
54 


The  CONCLUSION'  55 

have  the  ear  of  God  first.  They  have 
been  in  His  company  last.  So  they 
come  to  us  trailing  their  little  glory 
clouds.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  Christ 
once  said  these  things  were  hid  from 
the  wise  and  prudent  and  revealed  to 
babes  ?  I  see  now  that  it  could  not 
have  been  otherwise. 

I  am  not  going  to  preach  a  sermon 
to  you.  I  could  not  even  if  I  tried. 
That  is  parson's  work.  But  I  find 
the  Rogue  has  taught  me  so  many 
parables  of  life  in  little,  that  I  should 
like  to  pass  them  on  to  you. 

You  used  to  long  for  some  definite 
proof  of  God.  All  thoughtful  men 
long  for  that.  And  I  have  found  the 
best  living  parable  of  the  Eternal  in 
the  Pearl.  You  know  what  her 
mother  is  to  her.  She  is  as  God  to 
her.  I  believe  in  God  now,  because  I 
believe  in  a  mother.  When  I  see  the 
daily  miracle  of  motherhood,  it  would 
be  unthinkable  to  me  if  you  and  I 
had  no  such  daily  motherhood  in  the 
Eternal.  We  could  do  just  as  well 


56     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WOULD 

without  a  God  as  the  Rogue  could  do 
without  her  mother.  A  man  would 
have  as  little  meaning  without  a  God 
as  a  child  without  a  mother.  You 
will  find  it  useless  to  argue  with  a 
sceptic  about  God — arguments  help  so 
little — and  you  cannot  demonstrate 
the  Unseen  in  black  and  white.  But 
before  a  man  says  there  is  no  God,  ask 
him  if  he  can  explain  away  the  mir 
acle  of  a  mother.  He  will  not  be  able 
to  do  it,  for  he  cannot  explain  away 
himself.  And  when  you  have  got 
him  to  realize  the  miracle  of  mother 
hood  he  will  not  be  very  far  from  be 
lieving  in  a  God.  Do  not  hurry  his 
faith  after  that,  but  wait  until  he  has 
a  child  of  his  own.  Then  he  will  find 
it  as  easy  to  believe  as  it  was  once  easy 
to  doubt.  This  may  be  nursery  the 
ology,  but  I  expect  it  is  good  enough 
for  you  and  me. 

I  remember  also  how  you  used  to 
be  oppressed  with  the  mystery  of  pain. 
Not  long  afterwards,  a  friend  intro 
duced  you  to  James  Hinton's  priceless 


The  CONCLUSION  57 

little  book.  In  those  days  you  often 
wished  that  pain  could  have  been  left 
out  when  God  made  man.  But  what 
ever  is  left  out  of  life,  pain  never  is. 
The  other  day,  a  thorn  ran  into  the 
Rogue's  finger.  Of  course  she  came 
to  me  to  have  it  taken  out.  You  do 
not  imagine  it  gave  me  any  pleasure 
to  probe  the  little  finger  with  a  needle 
and  hear  her  screaming  with  pain. 
It  hurt  me  more  to  make  her  cry  than 
it  did  her  to  suffer.  And  if  God  is  to 
take  the  thorn  out  of  your  flesh  and 
mine — however  mysteriously  it  may 
have  got  in — I  do  not  think  He  will 
be  able  to  make  us  perfectly  free  from 
pain  without  probing  us,  any  more 
than  I  was  able  to  extract  the  thorn 
without  the  needle-prick.  You  justify 
me  entirely  when  I  inflict  the  pain  on 
the  Rogue,  for  you  know  my  motive 
in  pricking  her.  Why  not  give  God 
credit  for  the  same  motive,  and  justify 
Him  to  yourself  every  time  you  have 
to  suffer !  We  may  think  ourselves 
kind  to  our  own  children — but,  de- 


58     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

pend  upon  it,  God  is  far  kinder  to  us. 
For  it  is  not  likely  that,  when  He 
made  man,  He  would  make  him 
kinder  than  Himself. 

And  why  should  Providence  be  un 
thinkable  to  you  ?  Do  you  not  act 
Providence  to  your  own  child  daily  ? 
Your  eye  is  always  on  her.  She  is 
never  out  of  your  sight.  Even  in  the 
night-time  the  light  in  the  room  burns 
low,  and  you  can  actually  see  her 
every  movement  and  anticipate  her 
every  wish.  When  she  awakes,  you 
are  there.  When  she  is  asleep,  you 
are  there.  You  are  always  there,  and 
she  does  not  know  it.  In  the  day 
time,  from  an  upper  window  or  from 
your  seat  on  the  lawn,  you  watch  her 
playing  in  the  garden.  The  nettles 
on  the  roadside  troubled  you  terribly 
for  a  time,  for  you  could  not  keep  her 
away  from  them.  So  one  day  you 
actually  allowed  her  to  touch  a  nettle. 
It  hurt  you  to  let  her  hurt  herself. 
But  it  was  good  for  her.  She  never 
goes  near  a  nettle  now.  You  help  her 


The  CONCLUSION  59 

over  the  rough  stones  on  the  road. 
When  she  sees  them,  she  stops  and 
lifts  up  her  hands  to  you  and  says, 
"  Father,  carry  me  over  the  big  stones 
— please,  father."  And  you  carry 
her.  You  stand  between  her  and 
every  danger.  She  holds  your  hand 
and  presses  it  nervously  when  she  is 
afraid.  You  act  Providence  literally 
to  your  child,  by  day  and  by  night, 
and  in  spite  of  her  mingled  tears  and 
smiles  no  one  could  do  better  for  her 
than  you  do.  Do  you  think,  then, 
that  God  does  less  for  you  than  you  do 
for  your  own  child  ?  Your  care  is  a 
thing  which  her  little  brain  cannot 
understand,  and  God's  Providence  is  a 
miracle  which  you  can  never  fathom. 
It  is  a  mystery  to  me  why  men  will 
not  believe  of  God  what  they  con 
stantly  believe  of  themselves.  Which, 
surely,  is  an  arrogant  egotism.  I 
think  one  of  the  reasons  why  God 
gives  us  children  at  all  is  that  we  may 
be  able  to  understand  our  relation  to 
Him  in  their  daily  relation  to  us,  and 


60     The  FINEST  BAE Yin  The  WORLD 

to  see  in  our  care  over  them  a  parable 
of  His  care  over  us.  It  should  be 
easier  for  us  to  find  God  when  we  have 
children.  If  a  child  does  not  intro 
duce  a  man  to  the  Eternal,  nothing 
else  will.  If  you  and  I  fully  under 
stood  the  significance  of  our  children, 
there  would  be  no  need  for  us  to  go  to 
church.  A  child  is  the  greatest  liv 
ing  revealer  of  the  Eternal  in  this 
world.  You  are  nearer  God  when 
you  have  your  child  in  your  arms 
than  at  any  other  time.  Oh,  foolish 
man  !  You  have  been  wondering  for 
years,  in  your  library  among  your 
books,  what  God  is  like,  and  what 
means  He  will  some  day  take  of  in 
troducing  you  to  Himself — and  all  the 
while  there  has  been  a  baby  climbing 
on  your  knee !  That  is  God's  way  of 
bringing  heaven  into  your  home  and 
into  your  heart.  What  the  Christ 
Unseen  has  not  been  able  to  complete 
in  you,  let  the  little  velvet  fingers  of 
your  Irving  Baby  Christ  finish.  And 
if  ever  you  are  in  any  danger  of  be- 


The  CONCLUSION  61 

traying  your  trust  to  your  child,  or  of 
showing  yourself  unworthy  within 
the  vision  of  her  wondering  eye,  re 
member  what  Christ  once  said  about  a 
millstone  and  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

I  know,  without  your  telling  me, 
that  you — like  many  another  parent 
— must  often  wonder  in  the  quietness 
of  the  sleepless  hours  what  happens 
to  children  when  they  are  taken 
away.  Where  do  they  go?  and  what 
do  they  do  all  the  time?  and  how 
long  will  it  be  until  they  sit  on  their 
mother's  knee  again  ?  Just  as  long 
as  the  visit  lasts.  For  when  the 
Rogue  goes  away  visiting,  as  she 
sometimes  does,  to  fling  her  love  and 
kisses  broadcast  in  that  Westland 
country  from  which  we  ourselves 
have  come,  I  am  as  one  bereaved.  I 
have  actually  lost  her  for  a  little 
while.  But  I  try  not  to  grudge  her. 
It  is  for  her  good.  And  I  know  she 
will  come  back  again.  I  have  only 
to  lay  my  cheek  now  against  her 
warm  chubby  face  to  feel  how  inde- 


62     The  FINEST  BABY  in  The  WORLD 

scribable  the  coming  back  is.  And 
so  I  have  faith  that  it  will  be  with  all 
who  have  lost  children.  They  have 
only  gone  to  visit  elsewhere.  Why 
not  another  world  as  well  as  another 
countryside?  They  are  throwing 
their  love  and  kisses  broadcast  in  the 
land  of  the  setting  sun.  Children 
are  needed  there  as  well  as  here. 
For  heaven  without  children  would 
be  a  poorer  place  than  earth.  Have 
patience,  then,  and  do  not  grudge 
them  the  change  of  scene.  Think  of 
them  there  exactly  as  you  like  best  to 
think  of  them,  and  you  will  please 
God.  They  are  missing  you  just  as 
much  as  you  are  missing  them — it 
may  be.  They  will  come  back  to 
you  one  day,  when  you  least  expect 
it,  and  when  you  meet  them  in  the 
sunset  they  will  appear  so  much  more 
beautiful  that  you  will  be  glad,  after 
all,  they  went  away  to  get  that  look 
on  their  faces  which  they  could  never 
have  got  here.  They  were  yours  be 
fore  they  went — they  are  yours  all 


The  CONCLUSION  63 

the  time  they  are  away — they  shall 
be  yours  again. 

These  are  the  words  which  you 
must  speak  to  the  mothers  of  your 
acquaintance — the  mothers  who  know 
what  I  mean — the  mothers  who  will 
never  forget.  And  for  yourself,  take 
the  dear  Rogue  up  in  your  arms  and 
kiss  her  with  a  thankful  heart  as  you 
never  did  before. 


nr  rrsoF.  LIBRARY,  ens 


001205005   o 


